Evidently
by DustBlood
Summary: Enter a point in the famous detective's life where he is no longer sure whether he can continue. After receiving a mysterious message from Jim Moriarty, trusted companion of the great detective; John Watson must reveal a long kept secret to his friend. Will Sherlock cope with the light after being kept in the dark for so long, or will he finally give in to the band of manipulators?
1. Prologue

It had been about a week since the infamous detective Sherlock Holmes had a case, and it was easy for even the most oblivious person to see the withdrawal signs. Yet no one saw them more than John Watson, previous flatmate to the detective and long-time friend.

It was clear that Sherlock was bored. Even the easiest of cases would have satisfied him at this point. As John had observed, the detective had already shot five times at the yellow face painted on the wall, paced up and down the apartment for around an hour before continuing to burn something that John guessed was some sort of human organ in the kitchen.

After around five hours of utter silence - apart from the annoyed heavy breathing of John who was trying to update his blog – a small buzz followed by a couple of short notes seemed like thunder in the apartment.

Within microseconds of Sherlock's phone buzzing, the detective had pulled it out of his pocket and was in the process of checking his messages.

"Oh." Sherlock said.

John swivelled in his chair, "Oh?" he asked, staring at his friend with raised eyebrows.

Sherlock didn't reply and only stared at the text message; I know something you don't know. –JM If the detective had expected a text from anyone; it certainly wouldn't have been him.

Quickly locking his phone he shoved it back into his pocket, "Yes, 'Oh', John. It's something people say when they're surprised by something." He spoke quickly, and John immediately picking up the distress in his friend's voice.

Before John could reply, a quiet buzz sounded from next to his laptop. He noted Sherlock's eyes shooting straight to him as he checked the message. John's jaw tightened as he read the single-word text. POLAND.

Blinking, the doctor put his phone back down on the table and looked up to see Sherlock's expecting face. "Well?" he asked, eyes sparking with curiosity.

John frowned, "It was just Mary sending me pictures from New York."

"I see." John could tell that Sherlock didn't believe him, though he tried his best to not let his true emotions show. On the inside, John was in full panic mode. To anyone not involved, it would just seem like meaningless spiel, but to him, it was one of his worse fears.

Sherlock turned away and started pacing again, his shoes clicking on the wooden floor with every step. John breathed deeply, trying to suppress his feelings.

Buzz.

Another text.

Denbigh 27 1 4 12

"Oh God…" John mumbled to himself, his whole face felt numb. Not even in the most serious of cases had he felt like this.

His legs felt weak, but he forced himself to stand. With shaky breaths he walked over to the door, pulling it open, "I'm just going out for a couple of minutes." Sherlock, who was still pacing, just waved his slender hand dismissively.

Half running down the stairs, he came face-to-face with Mrs Hudson, the house-keeper at 221B.

"Hello John." She greeted him politely, if a little surprised by his sudden appearance.

John inwardly grimaced to himself, "Hello Mrs Hudson." He was trying desperately to keep the panic out of his voice.

"Is there anything I can get you?" she asked, not noticing the air of urgency that was plastered all across John's face.

"Uh, no thanks."

"Not even some tea?" Mrs Hudson remained oblivious.

"No." John said flatly, growing more and more frustrated by the second.

"What about-"

"No, Mrs Hudson!" John nearly shouted, causing the woman to look distressed. He didn't have time to deal with this now. Shoving past Mrs Hudson, he continued to run down the stairs, phone still in hand.

As soon as he was outside, John dialled the only number he knew would help. The phone was picked up immediately.

"Hello, Mycroft?"

"Oh, hello John." Sherlock's brother answered in the lax, unflustered tone that the doctor was used to.

John sighed, "Did you get the message?" He didn't doubt that Mycroft had received it, but he wanted to be sure

"Denbigh 27 1 4 12." He recited, "Yes, I got it. Moriarty certainly has been busy getting this information.

John silently agreed and took a deep breath, "What do we do?"

"Do you want my honest answer? Or the sugar-coated one?" Mycroft asked dryly.

"Tell me." John demanded, though his voice shook.

"I have no idea." Even though John couldn't see Mycroft, he could tell the man was smiling.

"Well, when you know what to do, tell me." He hung up without giving him a chance to reply.

John threw his hands to his head, nearly dropping his phone. This was far by one of the greatest dilemmas he had ever been in, and this time, he couldn't ask Sherlock Holmes for help.

Buzz

Slowly, John moved his hand away from his head, looking at the phone. I think you and Sherly should have some 'quality time' together. –JM.


	2. Confrontation

John's phone flashed up with the "Low Battery" sign and promptly turned itself off. The doctor just stood in the street, staring unconsciously at the blank screen. Although john hated to admit it, Moriarty was right. He needed to talk to Sherlock.

Advancing slowly up the stairs, he could hear the detective pacing slightly more briskly than before and mumbling quietly to himself. Half way up the stairs, John's fears took over, causing him to doubt the plan to confront the detective and tell him everything. Wrestling with his conscience on the stairs, John heard the obviously irritated voice of Sherlock calling, "John, is that you?"

John felt he had no choice but to reply as calmly as possible. "Err," he stuttered, clearing his throat, "Yeah, it's me."

"Well get up here then! We don't have all day to figure out what the hell Moriarty is on about this time!"

John took a deep breath and wandered cautiously up the stairs, planning how the conversation might, but probably won't go. "Now," the detective began, "Knowing Jim Moriarty the way we do, what could he possibly mean by, 'I know something'? It doesn't add up, yet." he added. "Perhaps this is another one of his plans to get inside my head. Coil me up like a spring. Get me to prepare myself for a mental attack and then! …" he exclaimed. John held his breath, waiting for a reply. Sherlock's face went blank as he sighed away the idea. "I just don't know any more John. Am I losing it?" Sherlock exhaled deeply and slumped down deeper and deeper into the battered old arm chair by the window. Picking up his violin, he plucked occasionally at a few of the strings, staring into nothingness.

John walked over to the detective and sat across from him on a stool he'd pulled up. "You're not losing it," he said calmly. "If anything, I'm losing it. I've been trying to hide a secret away for so long now that I feel I have become less of a person, less of a friend because of it."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked. John had no idea how to reply, so instead began to envision Mycroft and what he would say.

"When was the last time you saw Miss Adler? Irene Adler." Sherlock looked puzzled. "It must be around 13, 14 years now? Why?"

"Under what circumstances did you," he paused, trying to think of a way to word his next sentence, "Err, meet with her?" John asked, his voice stammering under the stress.

"Well, we talked and I remember dancing for some reason…"

"Did you, err, fall asleep, at all? You know, in her bed?" John asked, looking at his feet childishly.

"I- I don't remember." The detective looked as bewildered as John. "All I remember was a lot of drinking of some sort, and then we…" his voice trailed off as the blurred memory of over a decade ago came flooding back into his head. "John," he said with his eyes full of terror and fury at his friend, "What do you know? Tell me, now." John looked up from his feet and stared straight into the terrified eyes of the detective sat across from him.

"Sherlock, your brother and I were asked a while ago to keep a secret from you; a secret that Moriarty knows now and can use against you. This secret is your most vulnerable asset; the one anyone could take, twist and change. We kept it from everyone but your brother, Irene of course and I. Neither you nor your parents knew about this, and I promised that they would never find out when I was told and-"

"TELL ME JOHN!" the detective shouted.

"Emily." John mumbled.

"Who?" Sherlock replied, trying to recognize the name.

"Your daughter, Sherlock; your most vulnerable asset."


	3. Assistance

"W-what…?" Sherlock stuttered. The detective had never been so scared. Not at the sight of such a gruesome corpse, nor at the face of death, not even when rivalling his nemesis Moriarty.

"Your daughter, Sherlock. Emily." John answered simply, realising that he was repeating himself to his friend.

Sherlock still looked dumbfounded, "But…that's not…" he trailed off, his eyes quickly becoming glazed. He had sunk into a sea of thoughts, unable to surface.

"Sherlock…?" John asked cautiously, knowing how violent his friend could be if he was disturbed without reason. Even at his name, the doctor saw no change in the detective's expression. He doubted that his friend had even heard him.

Without warning, Sherlock jumped up from the armchair and almost ran over to the door. "We have a guest." He told John emotionlessly. Sherlock opened the door slowly, only to reveal the smug face of his brother.

"Sherlock."

"Mycroft." Sherlock replied coldly, his eyes seeming to turn to steel at the sight of his brother.

"I assume John gave you the news." The smug smile didn't leave the man's face.

"Yes, I did." John replied before Sherlock could utter some sort of snarky retort.

Sherlock was silent for a few moments. "How could you not tell me?" he whispered, his voice hoarse. He looked up at his brother with an expression that could only be described as pure anguish.

"How long have you known; the both of you?" Sherlock demanded quietly, his voice resonating with a growling tone.

"Since she was born…" John replied sheepishly, trying to look anywhere but the accusing glare of Sherlock.

"Well, it was only to protect you, dear baby brother." Mycroft grinned to himself. To tell the truth, he was extremely entertained by this sudden turn of events.

"Protect me?" Sherlock murmured half to himself, "Protect me?!" he screeched, his voiced laced with venom. "You hid my own child away from me just to protect me! Oh that's rich! That's juuust peachy isn't it! I DIDN'T EVEN KNOW SHE EXISTED!"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, "Precisely."

"I really don't think you're helping, Mycroft." John mumbled, slightly shell-shocked at Sherlock's outburst. He should have known something like this would have happened.

"And you!" Sherlock span on his heal, making an ear bursting squeal on the floor. "My 'best friend' are you?! Always there for me are you?!"

"Sherlock, I…" John began, but he had no words left.

"You're supposed to be my friend, yet you kept the biggest secret of my life away from me for all these years!" Sherlock turned away, walking over to the window, his face buried in his pale hands.

John mouthed to Mycroft, "I think you should leave." Feeling as it would be best if Sherlock's brother wasn't around. Mycroft rolled his eyes and left without another word.

John looked at his friend, the guilt of 14 years weighing down his shoulders and making him feel faint. Turning to leave Sherlock to his own thoughts was the only thing John could think to do. As he walked out of the door, the doctor could hear the irritated mumbling of his friend cutting through the deafening silence.

"Come on, come on. Pick up, John…" Inspector Lestrade was urgently trying to contact the doctor, in light of the news that Mycroft Holmes had shared with him. Now that the cat was out of the bag, it was imperative to locate Emily as quickly as possible. And that's exactly what Scotland Yard had done.

The phone went to voice mail after a couple more rings, leaving Lestrade only one more contact to try.

The phone was picked up almost immediately.

"Hello? 221B Baker Street."

"Hi, Mrs Hudson. I'd love to chat but I've got something urgent to tell John. Is there any chance you could get him for me?" Lestrade prayed for John to be home as he heard Mrs Hudson shuffling in the kitchen.

"Hello? Lestrade?" John answered the phone. Luckily for him, Mrs Hudson had found him when he was just coming down the stairs.

"Yeah, John, we found Emily."

John's breath caught in his throat. "You did?" He breathed, half relieved, and half terrified.

"Well, yes. It wasn't hard." Lestrade stated like John was a complete idiot. "We all received the text with the place and those numbers. Don't tell me you didn't solve it."

John frowned to himself; he hadn't really been concerned with cracking a code when he knew he'd be tasked with breaking the news to Sherlock.

Lestrade carried on when he realised that the doctor wasn't going to answer, "Well, we first received the text saying Poland. Then there was Denbigh 27 1 4 12. Denbigh is supposed to be a Polish…asylum." Lestrade grimaced as he waited for John's reply, but there was none. "The numbers clearly refer to the twenty-seventh day in January," he continued, "the four referring to Thursday and the twelve being the time."

"Wait wait wait!" John halted the inspector, "Time for what."

Lestrade gulped, "Um, John, this might be hard for you to hear, but Emily has been accused and proved the murderer of six people…" he trailed off.

"Murder!?" John practically shouted, "She's thirteen! How could she have murdered six people?!"

"I don't know, John." Lestrade answered honestly, "But the time…it's the time of her execution."


	4. The Game is on

John sank to the stairs. His face was pale and his hands were shaking. "You better get over here then Lestrade. I'm not telling him."

"Why not? He's your friend after all."

"Yeah," John scoffed, "try telling that to him."

"Oh, you told him did you? I take it he didn't take it particularly well."

"What do you think?" John replied sarcastically, sighing in utter disbelief at what he was hearing. "Listen, just come over and I'll make him some tea and you never know; maybe the thought of his daughter being a mass murderer might be, err." John's voice trailed off awkwardly to an inward cringe of embarrassment. "Yeah," began Lestrade, "I'll come over and break the news before he breaks your arm." The police inspector smiled hoping for a laugh, but received a dull silence from across the line.

Hesitantly opening the front door, Lestrade emerged to find John skittering towards him down the stairs, looking behind himself from time to time. "I'm so glad you're here!" John said nervously between his teeth. "You need to talk to..." The smashing of expensive sounding pottery resonated around the hallway of 221B, alerting the police inspector that he was indeed needed quite desperately. A quick glance between the two acquaintances was all it needed for Lestrade to know that Sherlock certainly hadn't taken the news well at all. "After you," John said smiling and clenching his jaw anxiously.

"Sherlock," Lestrade inquired, "Can I come in?"

"Why would you want to do that?" the detective replied indignantly.

"We need to talk to you; John and me."

"John, that deceptive little hedgehog who I thought was the only real person I could trust? HE isn't coming anywhere near me."

There was a long silence. After a moment of eerie quiet, Lestrade and the doctor made their way to the door of Sherlock's apartment, which, strangely, was wide open. Peeping around the door frame cautiously, John looked around the room. Nobody was in sight. "There's no one here!" John whispered as loudly as possible without being too melodramatic. Advancing into the room, the two nervous gentlemen crept about the place, not daring to make a sound. "I don't understand, he should be in here, unless…" Lestrade looked towards the bathroom, then to where the toaster should be in the kitchen across from them and then rapidly back to the bathroom.

"No." John remarked.

Suddenly, a rush of realisation swept across his being, turning is spine yellow and his face pale.

"SHERLOCK!" John shouted, his eyes still fixed with Lestrade's puzzled gaze. Sprinting to the bathroom door, the police inspector Lestrade tried the door knob; it wouldn't open. Banging on the door desperately, John screamed at the top of his voice, "Sherlock, what are you doing in there with a toaster! Open this door now!" He pressed his ear against the harsh wooden door straining to hear if a tap was running or water of any kind was flowing.

"SHERLOCK! GET OUT OF THERE NOW! YOU STUPID SON OF A…" John's rage was haltered by the sudden opening of the bathroom door.

"Well, hello." Sherlock emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a large white dressing gown carrying the toaster, a bag of sliced bread tucked under one arm and a plate of toast.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" John demanded angrily. "We thought you went into the bathroom with the toaster to..." before John could finish he was interrupted by a thunderous tone.

"I would do nothing of the sort! Unlike some, I feel I have a great deal of self-value I will have you know Dr Watson, now, pardon me." Pushing past the alarmed pair, the detective quite confidently strode across the room to his arm chair in front of the window.

"Toast?" John asked.

"Yes, what's wrong with toast?" Sherlock asked, his eyes narrowing into arrow slits either side of his nose.

"Nothing, it's just,"

"Bloody hell John! Did you forget why I'm here? Why **_you_** asked me to be here," Lestrade interrupted. "Listen to me Sherlock. John tells me that you've heard the news, about Emily." Lestrade flinched as Sherlock reached down behind his chair. The detective sighed deeply,

"Yes, I have been informed of the current predicament and I am going to be quite plain with you when I say that I didn't want to know this!" Sherlock picked up a small shoe box, too small for a pair of his size twelve brogues. No, this box was for something far different. Placing the box on his lap, Sherlock opened the lid, concealing the contents from the others. "Huh," Sherlock laughed to himself, **_"I didn't want to know!_**" Sherlock held up a small hand gun, pointing it at the bewildered pair.

"Sherlock, think about what you're doing." John tried to contain his fear behind a calm, gentle approach. His days in Afghanistan taught him well under this kind of pressure so John was more than waiting for an attempt at control like this – if it was anything of the sort! John was fully prepared and Sherlock knew it. "Does this make you miss the fighting John?" Sherlock asked, his eyes growing wide and psychotic. "Didn't you miss the war, the guns, the conflict?"

"No," John replied, still as calm as ever, "I found something greater than that. I found a friend."

"Don't be sentimental John!" Sherlock almost shouted. All the while Lestrade was edging his way across the room without the scrutinizing and potentially dangerous glare from the sociopathic detective.

"Sherlock," he said warily, "I need to show you something."

"What could you possibly want now; Lestrade? What could you possibly bring to the table at this point in the game to make me drop the weapon, hm?"

"Let me show you." Struggling to get his hand out of his back pocket, Lestrade opened up his wallet and pulled out a passport sized photograph. "This is Emily," he said, his hand still nervously jittering at the sight of the weapon. Although a police inspector, Lestrade had never been under direct threat with a weapon which could kill. "Here, take it, she is yours after all."

Sherlock reached out and snatched the photograph impatiently. John and Lestrade grimaced as the tangible silence became thick enough to cut through. Dropping the gun, Sherlock stared deeper and deeper into the eyes of his daughter. "She was eleven in that photograph." Lestrade added.

"Was she!" Sherlock smiled, not even acknowledging the fact that John had already picked up the hand gun and tucked it into his back pocket. "How old did you say she is now?"

"Thirteen." John said strolling tentatively over to his friend. Sherlock smiled, looking at the pair, dazed by the strange rush of happiness that surged through his veins.

"She's only a child." Sherlock sighed and tucked the photo between the chair and his thigh.

"She needs you Sherlock," John said placidly.

"Why though, after all these years tell me about her now?" John and Lestrade looked at each other before John took half a step back, immediately sending Sherlock's attention to the police inspector.

"When we said she needed you Sherlock, we really do mean more than ever. You see, in the absence of a parent of any kind, she has lacked…" Lestrade looked to John for help.

"Guidance," John added.

"Yes," Lestrade continued, "She had nobody to help her through the years and we regret to inform you that the path in which she has chosen is, a little rocky."

"How do you mean?" the detective asked, not really wanting an answer.

Lestrade grimaced inwardly, "Sherlock she's in Poland; in a place where children to go to get medical help."

"Why does she need help? Is she sick?" Sherlock's heart began to beat faster at the thought of his only child being ill and him not knowing.

"She isn't sick," John began, "Just… unstable. This is why we're here. To tell you, just so you know. She's killed people Sherlock."

The detective's face turned a pasty white. He swallowed down the shock from his voice but even still it came out croaky and sullen. "How many?" he asked, closing his eyes tightly against the question, regretting an answer.

"Six." John replied after a pause that seemed to echo around the apartment building.

Sherlock sighed and looked at his feet. Adjusting his position in the chair to something slightly more vertical, he slouched over and put his elbows on his knees, supporting his chin in his hands. Sighing heavily, the great detective stared at an empty patch of floor. An eternity went by, or at least what seemed an eternity. In the space of this eternity, John had sat down and Lestrade had begun to make three cups of tea, the only drink strong and weak enough to wash away the raw taste of the truth.

Sherlock sat upwards slowly, gathering his dressing gown and fixing the belt around his waist. Leaving the room, John and Lestrade's eyes followed his brief journey from the sitting room, across the kitchen and to the room at the back.

"I suppose we should go soon." John said. A sad, melancholy feeling crept its way through John's body. Sighing he adjusted in his seat to move, when all of a sudden, a smartly dressed Sherlock erupted out of nowhere. Lestrade simply stared, mesmerised by the sudden transformation. Fixing his cufflinks, Sherlock began pottering around the apartment, putting things into a small bag which he'd thrown at John's feet. "Passport!" he shouted, slapping his palm against his temple. John, looking utterly bewildered, laughed at his friend and shrugged his shoulders easily at the inspector.

"Come on, come on! We haven't all day! We'll stop in at each of your apartments and you can grab whatever. Toothbrush! I've sent for a cab and it should be here in an hour," Sherlock called from the bathroom.

"Where exactly are we planning on going?" Lestrade asked looking puzzled as per usual.

"Isn't it obvious Lestrade?" Sherlock said whilst leaping onto the sofa, "Poland! I have notified Scotland Yard of your departure. THE GAME IS CERTAINLY ON!"


	5. Heathrow

By the time they had made it to Heathrow airport, it was already early evening. The trio had travelled light with only a few previsions each. Sergeant Donovan of the Yard had come along to wish them well, but mostly for the amusement of the trip. Despite their best attempts, neither John nor Greg could get her to quieten down. The mere idea of Sherlock Holmes even having a child sent Sally into a fit of laughter. Through the giggles, she'd breathlessly make a comment like, "The freak! The freak's got a kid!"

On one occasion, Sherlock made the mistake of retorting to one of her jabs; "Well no one asked for your opinion." Though his tone was uncertain and distant, this only entertained Donovan more.

Everyone felt ready to punch Donovan after the cab ride from hell, especially Sherlock. He wasn't in the most stable condition and Sally was just turning things from bad to worse. Lestrade had forced her to stay in the cab, and it was probably for the best.

Turning into the parking bay, the trio looked through the sliding glass doors of the airport, craning their necks to try and spot the line at the baggage check in. Too long and it would be 'frightfully boring'- as Mycroft had put it- yet too short and they could already be late.

"Right," John said, hoping to spur some life into the dauntless pair sat either side of him in the cab.

"Which terminal, Sherlock?" John said whilst nudging his friend awake again.

"Err," he said half asleep, "Nineteen, I think. What does it say on the ticket?"

"We were never given tickets Sherlock." John said worriedly.

"Oh yes, of course. Where's Mycroft?"

"Mycroft is coming?" Greg Lestrade looked puzzled.

"I should hope so! He's our ticket." John and Lestrade looked at one another, exchanging the general 'I have no idea' sort of look.

The cab pulled up outside the entrance to the Heathrow departures bay. Like a child hurrying to buy a new toy, Sherlock was out of the cab first; which surprised everyone. Bag ready in hand, prancing over to the doors, Sherlock fairly casually strode into the cave-like building with supreme ease. John and Greg on the other hand stayed back a few metres, confused by the sudden enthusiasm.

Sat in a café reading a newspaper sat Mycroft.

"My ticket?" Sherlock almost demanded.

"Waiting for you at the gate." Mycroft looked slyly at the two puzzled friends stood at a distance from the estranged brothers.

"But one more thing," Mycroft added. His eyes beckoned his younger brother with a subtle yet extremely overpowering glare. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock obliged and lent closer to his brother. Looking at John and Greg the whole time, Mycroft whispered into his brother's ear.

"Have a safe fight baby brother." Mycroft remained as lax and unflustered as ever. Again Sherlock rolled his eyes and awkwardly put his hand in his pocket, cringing inwardly.

"Shoo!" Mycroft said, fluttering his hands like they had dirt on them. "Twas lovely to see you John; a pleasure as always." Mycroft smiled, but there was nothing behind his eyes; no feeling at all.

As Sherlock marched ahead the pair watched as the detective walked straight past the baggage check in. "Err, Sherlock, don't we need to, you know, get checked in." Greg asked. Sherlock simply turned on his heel, tapped the side of his nose and kept walking. As they walked up the stairs to the departure lounge, Sherlock looked over to the check in desk. Dressed in uniform with bright red lips and a neckerchief sat Molly. With a casual nod and a wink from Sherlock, she smiled and scanned a small slip of paper. Greg looked furiously at Molly, but all that he received was a shrug. John winked at the little scientist as she blushed flirtily at the thought of being an accomplice to Sherlock's latest adventure.

"What did your brother mean by 'the ticket is waiting for us at the gate'?" Greg asked again. Despite Sherlock's best efforts to avoid answering stupid questions, he was just about at his wits end so could take it no longer.

"Well, _inspector Lestrade, _if you actually worked up to as your name 'suggests' then how about doing some detecting, detective!"

Lestrade looked blankly into the arrow slits burning into his skull.

"Stop." Sherlock ordered from a metre ahead of Watson and Lestrade. They caught up, standing tentatively behind the detective as he stared up at the flights board.

-26500-POLAND-WARSAW-23:15-

Sherlock began to murmur incisively and it wasn't until John had walked all the way around to where Sherlock was standing to realise that his eyes were closed and twitching.

"That bloody mind palace, he might as well live in it! He wouldn't be bothered by all of us mortals in his little world would he?" John whispered under his breath.

"Did you say something?" Sherlock asked suddenly, staring at John who was staring him right in the face. From a little distance away, John could hear the faint sniggering from Greg Lestrade who was almost crying at the scene.

"It's no wonder people think you're gay John if you like being that close to your friends!" John huffed awkwardly and gave the laughing inspector the "I can't believe you just said that" glare. Allowing Sherlock to walk ahead again, John punched Lestrade in the shoulder, making him cry with laughter.

"Gee, thanks _friend!_" John said angrily through his teeth.

"You're welcome!" Greg said still chuckling.

_"Can all passengers attending flight 26500 to Warsaw, Poland, please proceed to gate nineteen. That's all passengers attending flight 26500 to Warsaw please proceed to gate nineteen, Thank You."_

"See," Sherlock began, "even half asleep I knew it was nineteen!"

"Keep walking." John said pushing Sherlock along.

In a matter of minutes, the trio had approached gate nineteen where, already, a queue of well over seventy people were bustling to get through the door to the plane. Again, Sherlock strode out in front everyone lining up impatiently for the poor young lady at the gate, ready for the shouting public waiting to be unleashed, like starving hounds drooling over a prime piece of sirloin.

"Follow!" Sherlock brayed back at his two disciples who were standing sheepishly at the back of the line. Edging their way around the crowd, Lestrade and John hurriedly caught up with the detective who had somehow managed to acquire a moustache from somewhere.

"HALLO, DARLING! HOW ARE JOO?" Sherlock almost shouted at the shell-shocked flight attendant at the gate. Lestrade and Watson smiled at one another and stared at the performance Sherlock was putting on.

"I SEE YOU ALREADY HAVE TICKET OF MINE, NO? IT IS UNDER A VLADIMIR ROVENHENSKI, SOUNDS FAMILIAR, YES, OF COURSE IT DOES, SILLY BILLY!" 'Vladimir' looked at his two baffled friends who were close to blurting out their contained amusement.

"Err," the attendant began, "I can check if you like."

"NO NEED DARLING, NO NEED! MY FRIENDS HERE CAN BACK ME UP, NO?" Sherlock looked pleadingly at his friends who nodded their heads enthusiastically and mumbled in the deepest voices possible.

"Um, we're going to need passport identification if you want to get through the gate to the plane, um, sir." The attendant looked fairly frightened, probably new to the job. Perfect.

"HERE YOU ARE MY LITTLE BABUSHKA! MY PASS OF PORT AND THE ONES FOR EACH OF MY FRIENDS." The deceptive detective slipped the passports on to the desk and flashed their photos in front of her face, too close for comfort. Examining the passports closer, the girl's eyes widened.

"I'm so sorry, your majesty. There must have been a mistake with your ticket. I'll sort everything out. Please just get on the plane with your friends and have a pleasant flight." Bowing her head apologetically, she opened the door and let the "king of Poland" and his two "ambassadors" through on to the plane. Flurrying his hand above his head, half mockingly and half staying in character, Sherlock swayed through the door, clicking his heels together.

Walking through the long corridor to the aircraft, the three friends spat out their laughter in a tremendous shout. Laughing and crying as they stumbled closer to the plane. "How did we even get away with that?" Lestrade asked whilst wiping away the tears from his eyes.

"Simple," Sherlock began, "clearly she was new to the job due to her stuttering speech and a small red spot of lipstick on her shirt collar, obviously showing that she had put her make-up on in a hurry meaning she was nervous or late, clear traits of someone new to a job. Being an airline assistant, you would have thought that she would know that Poland is a presidency and not run by a royal family of any sort. She believed us Inspector because of my overwhelming enthusiasm, top class acting skills and her poor knowledge of Polish politics. Fool proof."

John composed himself after a fit of laughter as he inhaled deeply. As the three approached the gate, a nervous looking male air host rolled out a short red carpet coming out of the plane.

Greg, almost forgetting his role as the "King Vladimir Rovenhenski's" ambassador, asked stupidly, "is that carpet for u…" John nudged his shoulder hard and allowed Sherlock to continue his sterling performance.

Waltzing ahead of John and Greg, King Sherlock of Poland greeted the air hosts and hostesses with firm, "Polish" hand-shakes. "HALLO MY FRIENDS! PLEASURE TO BE FLYING WITH YOU THIS DAY!" The ambassadors John and Greg shook the hands of the dazzled staff before following Sherlock to the front of the first class bay. Sitting down in a heap, Sherlock prepared himself for what was next to come. It didn't matter how smooth he was slipping past the eyes of the airport staff, the baggage monitors or the flight attendants; Sherlock was scared. He was quaking with nerves. He could be ready to face anything by now, but meeting the daughter he didn't know he had; that took a nerve of steel in the eyes of the great Sherlock Holmes.


	6. Moriarty

The plane set off at a staggering pace. Greg Lestrade, being scared of flying, gripped fiercely onto the arms of the chairs as it climbed steeply. Closing his eyes tightly he felt a judging pair of eyes burning onto his forehead from between the seats in front. Peeking through his tightly shut lids cautiously, he saw the two icy blue eyes of Sherlock peering mischievously through the gap between the chairs. "I don't like flying." Greg said flatly through his teeth.

"I can see that." Sherlock said equally as flat. "Would you like a peanut?" he asked offering the bag through the gap.

"No thanks," Lestrade said firmly, "I think I'll pass."

"Suit yourself." The detective said under his breath. John smiled and sharpened his glare at Sherlock hoping to create guilt within him.

'No reaction,' he thought, 'as expected.'

After the mind-numbing six and a half hour flight, the plane landed as gracefully as a beached walrus, causing Lestrade to grip onto the sides of his seat once more. Unfastening his seatbelt, Sherlock grabbed his bag and fixed his moustache that was starting to look a little crooked. As the three walked off the plane, John began to look worried.

"What's wrong?" Greg asked, pulling Sherlock backwards by his bag strap.

"We're in Poland." He said warily.

"We're all well aware of that John." Greg said hastily.

"No, I mean, they'll know that there is no such thing as the king of Poland." Greg's face turned pale as realisation sunk in. Sherlock sighed and pulled out a burgundy set of three familiar passports. Winking childishly, Sherlock handed one to either of them. After exchanging relieved glances, John and Lestrade were slightly more at ease with using their own names and faces instead of creeping their way through the Polish airline service as people who don't exist.

Walking through the terminal to the arrivals bay, the trio stopped to see a bustling crowd of people all trying to spot who it is they are taking back to a hotel or any other destination. Scanning the crowd, John and Greg couldn't see anyone with a sign for any of them.

"Did you call for a cab Sherlock? Lestrade asked in his usual perplexed tone.

"Nope." The detective replied swiftly.

"Then who called for him?"

Lestrade pointed to a rather short man wearing a cap and dark glasses. His attire looked worn and old, the true signs of a London cabby. Looking around at the other faces, Sherlock noticed something strange. The people picking up the new arrivals were all moderately smartly dressed; polished shoes, pressed jackets, ironed shirts and ties and a clean shaven face, whereas the odd one out was dressed in a plain beige baggy t-shirt and jeans with a men's cardigan which looked a few sizes too small and was littered with holes. The cap he wore was of an American baseball team, which would never be aired in Poland and darkly tinted red sunglasses. Something was definitely off.

"What do you see Sherlock?" John asked his friend noticing something wasn't right with the way he was staring.

"Nothing, it's just…" he stopped in mid-sentence. The ill-dressed man pushed his glasses down his nose to reveal his eyes. The dark brown homed in on Sherlock's piercing blue. Their eyes locked, the man winked before adjusting his glasses back up to hide his eyes once more. Almost hypnotised by this monumental act, Sherlock was speechless. He was almost so entranced that he didn't hear his phone buzz, or John's, or Greg's or everyone else's for that matter. Looking around, John noticed everyone in the building simultaneously reach for their phones. Glancing down at the screen, John read the four word text which he assumed was on everyone's screens;

_-Did you miss me?-_

"Sherlock," John whispered shakily.

"Hmm," Sherlock said, his eyes still affixed with those of the man on the opposite side of the room.

"Look at your phone." John handed Sherlock his phone as Sherlock refused to snap his gaze. Looking down Sherlock read the message.

"It's you." Sherlock said, directing his gaze once more to the man now smiling, stood by the door.

"Moriarty." John gasped.

"Yes John, we've walked right into this one. How did he find out?"

"I have no idea, Lestrade?" John looked hopefully at the baffled inspector who just shrugged his shoulders and looked to Sherlock for enlightenment.

The three fixed their eyes on to the psychopathic killer staring straight back at them. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a single slip of paper. Even from a distance Sherlock could see what was written on it in broad, black letters.

**WELCOME NEW DAD**

"Sherlock, what do we do?" John asked edging his hand into his back pocket to feel for the small hand gun he had previously taken from Sherlock, which he'd miraculously managed to sneak through baggage control - probably courtesy of Mycroft- but that didn't matter now.

"We follow him. He knows what he's doing so let's just play his game. He probably knows more than the three of us and the entire Scotland Yard put together. We need him to tell us, and I think that's why he's here."

"You think, Sherlock, only think. Great!" John replied sarcastically, still unsure about the whole predicament.

"It's all I've got to go off now." Sherlock turned to his friend with a look of worry, which startled John because he didn't know that his friend could…feel.

The trio of quaking companions shoved their way through the bustling crowd to Moriarty stood waiting for them. As Sherlock, John and Greg got closer to the infamous Jim Moriarty, they realised that he was laughing and laughing hard.

"Hello, there Sherlock," he said in his usual chilled out tone, "Emily's waiting for you to save her. Not from me, don't you worry Sherls."

John clenched his jaw tightly, not allowing his emotions to become visible.

"I'm just a little messenger, Mr Holmes, a messenger for her maker." He smiled deviously and turned to go through the doors to the car park.

"Oh do come along, you want to meet her don't you, you know, before she dies." He turned to look at them and skipped mockingly down the pavement.

Sherlock began to follow him at a distance. John and Lestrade felt they had no choice but to follow. Holding back for a moment, Sherlock leaned closer to John.

"If Moriarty is who he says he is," he began, "then we might be able to find out what has been causing a thirteen year old girl to… huh… kill people."

"You think someone has been making her do this?" Lestrade pondered.

"I know so." Sherlock followed Moriarty to a taxi along with John and Greg who tailed them a few feet away.

"Your carriage awaits!" Moriarty exclaimed, opening the door with a flurry.

"We don't want to keep her waiting."


	7. Evident

The taxi ride was long and silent. Although Moriarty was talkative, he didn't need to utter a word. He knew exactly what Sherlock was thinking. By the looks he made as he peered out of the window, when he happened to catch eyes with either John or Lestrade or by the way he was sat, Jim Moriarty knew very well that he was the last person Sherlock would have wanted to be in a taxi with right now.

"Ah," Moriarty sighed cheerfully, "this is nice isn't it; the four of us just driving around barren Polish waste land and through towns that used to have character, but are now just failed businesses surrounded by slums. This really is the life, boys."

Nobody said a word, just glanced awkwardly at their feet or out of the window.

"Oh cheer up lads!" Moriarty jeered, "We're not even at the height of the day and already we're… moping?"

Again, there wasn't a sound from the backseat.

"Well, I do hope you'll all be a little more talkative for the main event, especially you Sherlock!" Moriarty had switched his tone from himself being sarcastic to that of a primary school teacher.

"Well Jim my boy," he began to talk to himself, "we can't say you didn't try, now can we?" In the absence of a response, he answered himself, "No, I suppose not, Moriarty." he said in a higher version of his own voice.

Driving up a long, winding road, there was an eerie stillness about the hills and forests outside. It was almost like there was no air. Nothing around them just a quiet hush, as if they were trapped in their own little bubble, unable to contact the outside world, only able to see what was going on, frozen in time. Soon the hills ended, as in they just stopped. The rest of the journey was completely flat until they came to the woods, the woods so thick that there was no light to dapple the ground. Moriarty slowed the taxi to a crawl as they approached a ginormous stone building. Around the outside was a wall which must have been thirty feet high, topped with coils upon coils of lethal barbed wire. Moriarty lowered down his window and talked to the nurse stood by the security gate with a lighted cigarette in her hand. Sherlock rolled his window down too to smell the tobacco and eavesdrop the conversation. After something that looked like flirting, Moriarty rolled his window back up and proceeded through the gates to the main entrance of the hospital.

"Here we are boys. No going back now." He turned around to face the three with a sullen face. Clambering out of the car, Sherlock looked at his friends. They both looked back at him sorrowfully.

"You go with Moriarty Sherlock," John said calmly, "Greg and I will wait here and make sure he doesn't abandon you, here."

Nodding, Sherlock turned to face the building. "Come in why don't you?" Moriarty ceased the opportunity to make the current predicament far more entertaining than it should be. After avoiding the scrutinizing glares of the nurses, Sherlock was guided into a room that was a bright white; too white to look at for so long. Almost shielding his eyes against the blinding lightness, he saw that he was behind a glass wall.

"Where are we?" Sherlock asked, surprisingly puzzled, which scared him.

"We are on the right side of the fence, Mr Holmes.; the side of which you can come and go as you please. The other side is the side you can't escape from. It may look like a window now Sherlock, but on the other side it's a mirror. One sided glass, we see her, but she doesn't see us." Moriarty's face looked grave.

"Do you see her?" he asked. Sherlock scanned the room; there was only a small bed with a tightly fitted sheet set in the centre.

"Look closer." Moriarty whispered, fixing his glare on to Sherlock's face. Almost jumping, the detective stared at a spot under the bed. There, sticking out ever so slightly from under the bed, was a hand.

"You see her don't you, your daughter Sherlock?" Moriarty smiled devilishly.

Sherlock nodded, not quite sure whether he was scared or curious to see what was hiding out of sight.

"Can we make her move, please? She's really starting to bore me now." Moriarty said impatiently, shrugging. A doctor approached with a long pole. On the end of the pole was an open wire.

"This is the best part!" Moriarty said chuckling deviously. As Sherlock watched the doctor approach the bed, his face remained emotionless. Moriarty looked surprised,

"I knew you were cold Sherlock, but, wow, you would really let your own child be electrocuted? Seriously?"

"I haven't seen her yet. How do I know she even belongs to me?"

"You'll know." Moriarty looked back towards the horrific scene.

As Sherlock watched the doctor approach the bed, he could hear muffled shouts and screams. The bed started to jump and move a little. Moriarty banged on the glass shouting, "COME ON! MAKE HER MOVE FOR GODS SAKE!"

Sherlock's eyes widened with horror and disgust as the doctor pressed a button on the side of the pole, causing the wire to become live. Upturning the bed quickly, Sherlock's and Moriarty's views were disrupted.

"GET OUT OF THE WAY, OR SO HELP ME I'LL…!" Moriarty's voice stopped abruptly. Crawling frantically away from the doctor, hissing and clawing at him was a girl. Her cold blue eyes were wide with fear and her pale skin was scarred with years of torment and abuse. Her thick long hair was slightly lighter than Sherlock's and fell down by her hips. Shielding her face in terror, she cowered into a corner. The doctor prodded the stick into her shoulder causing her to writhe in agony.

"STOP THIS!" Sherlock demanded, banging the glass with his fists, "SHE'S ONLY A GIRL WHY CANT YOU SEE THAT?"

"She's a murderer Sherlock and she must be dealt with." Moriarty said, smiling.

Not being able to bare it any longer, Sherlock looked away, disgusted that a child, innocent or not, was being treated like an animal.

"Look at her Sherlock." Moriarty said. "LOOK AT HER!"

Sherlock turned to face the girl whose pleading eyes were wide and frightened. He looked at her but saw only Irene. She had the same eyes, hair, nose; it was uncanny. Sherlock swallowed down the lump in his throat.

"I'm looking." He said, disallowing whatever emotions were trying to creep to the surface and be seen.

"I need to talk to her; alone." Sherlock said sullenly.

Moriarty stepped to the side, his eyes following the detective's every move.

"I'll see that she is… presentable for you." Moriarty retorted as Sherlock walked into a room with two chairs and a table between them; facing one another.

After a short while, a door at the back of the room opened. Out staggered a small girl in a white hospital gown with her long dark hair shielding her cold blue eyes. Emily sat down in front of Sherlock. "So," she began, "Where do you want to start?"


	8. Bedazzlement

Sherlock stared at the girl sat across from him, oblivious to what she had said. He was attempting to deduce what he could about Emily, though it was fruitless. The teen's face gave nothing away. Though he tried, he could not see past the scars and the bruises that plastered her face. Sherlock's thoughts were clouded by only one fact - there was no doubt that she was indeed his daughter.

"You asked me here to talk." Emily's flat voice broke through the fog, causing Sherlock's piercing eyes to lock onto her equally cold ones. "So I'd recommend that you should start before they take me away for being a deranged loon, again." At this, Emily looked at her feet, then sharply back at the detective.

Moriarty, whom had been at the back of the room, was growing quite bored. With a swift spin on his heal, he opened the grey door and shut it with a quiet, tentative click.

"I'm here because..." Sherlock was at a loss for words. The detective wasn't actually sure what to say to Emily, as he'd never been quite the expert in sentiment.

"Yes..." Emily growled, quickly growing impatient with the stuttering man in front of her.

Sherlock averted her icy gaze. "…because I'm your father." He sighed with an air of anguish.

Emily's breath caught in her throat. "W-w-what?!" She stuttered, shrinking back in her chair slightly, "How could...When did you...?" Emily had never been truly distressed in her life; not at the nurses or doctors, nor the so called cures, but the mere idea that she might have someone in her life that cared about her was truly alarming.

Before Sherlock could respond, a gunshot sounded outside. The detective sprang up, immediately alert to the danger. Emily, however, stayed motionless in her chair. To outside eyes, it would appear that she was in some kind of shock, but the truth was that Emily was all too used to the sound of a gun. Many had been fired during her time in Denbigh, often followed by a scream and low, heavy thud.

"Sorry about that." Moriarty strolled into the room, a small revolver held in his hand. "Although I do believe it's time for the happy family to depart now."

Sherlock stood, racing towards the door, his coat tails flailing behind him. He grasped the door knob in his slender hand. Clutching it tightly, he wrestled with his ever more impatient conscience. He turned slightly so that at least part of his face was revealed.

"You are coming with us." He said, looking into the lifeless eyes of Emily. "I want to know more about you."

"What about the doctors; the guards?" she asked, her face twisting into a perplexed frown.

"Taken care of!" Moriarty's voice sounded from the corridor outside.

Gesturing to Emily, Sherlock reached out his hand. The girl looked at it, not sure whether to go or stay. Another shot sounded from the corridor followed by a, "hurry!" from Moriarty. Emily needed no further persuasion.

Grabbing his hand, the pair ran as fast as they could muster, although Emily hadn't run in years. Stumbling over her own feet, the girl followed at arm's length behind her evident father.

Bursting through the double doors, Sherlock grabbed Emily and hustled her into the back of the taxi waiting in front of the building. John and Lestrade however, stood and watched in awe as Sherlock hurriedly draped a long coat over his daughter's shoulders and fixed a cap to cover her face. Mouths hanging open, Lestrade and John Watson looked towards the detective, now pacing beside the car.

"Where's Moriarty? Did he get out?" he said furiously.

The pair shook their heads. "Err, Sherlock," John began, clearing his throat, "THIS IS KIDNAPPING!" he shouted, his face wrought with anger and worry, signalling to the teenager sat in the car wearing Lestrade's coat and hat. Emily smiled through the window and pulled her knees up to her chin.

"How on earth do you expect to get her back to England?" John said, the fury welling up inside him.

"I have a plan, okay John. Does that make you happy?" Sherlock replied with a face plastered with a mixture of irritation and anxiety.

"Happy? HAPPY!? WHY IN GOD'S NAME WOULD I BE HAPPY ABOUT THIS SHERLOCK?!" John strode over to the detective.

"Because I have a family John."

"You have a family anyway!"

"MY OWN FAMILY! For once in my wretched life I have actually done something I am genuinely proud of. I have a daughter John! Don't you understand how that makes me feel?"

John shook his head and sighed, his gaze averting else-where.

"No, Sherlock, I don't."

The good doctor and his wife had been trying for years to start a family of their own. It was only recently when Mary began to wonder what was going on that she was told that she will never have children of her own; that she is barren.

Lestrade began to feel the awkwardness of his situation becoming increasingly more tangible.

Suddenly breaking the silence, Moriarty erupted through the doors; gun in hand and wiping a red substance off his hands and onto the back of his trousers.

"Time to go folks!" he said surprisingly cheerfully and he bounded to the driver's side door. "Back to the airport is it Mr Holmes?"

"Yes." Sherlock hardly wanted to utter a word after the past conversation so decided to remain silent for the remainder of the journey.

John sat in the front seat reluctantly alongside Moriarty. Lestrade angled himself against the door in the back, leaving room for Sherlock to put his arm around Emily, who, to the detective's concern had begun to start shivering.

* * *

Pulling up to the airport terminal, the rain beat down hard onto the roof of the taxi. The Englishmen grimaced as rain failed to spur energy in to them anymore. Emily, on the other hand stared in utter awe and bedazzlement out of the window at the large crystal droplets which she had missed dearly. Taking off Lestrade's coat and hat and removing Sherlock's arm from around her shoulders, the girl placed her palms against the cold glass, wiping away the condensation and watching her warm breath form clouds before her.

The taxi slowed. Immediately Emily threw herself out of the car. They were inside a multi-storey car park. Turning her head this way and that, the girl desperately searched for the daylight. Running, the cold floor and concrete hurt her bare feet, but she didn't care.

"EMILY! Lestrade don't let her get away!" John shouted from the passenger seat.

"Oh look, she's running." Moriarty stated calmly, peering nosily out of the window.

A flow of long dark hair disappeared from view, though Lestrade wasn't far behind it. Running behind the girl, he noticed the bruises pasted all over her legs and the scars and other marks covering her arms and neck. Lestrade slowed as Emily reached the exit.

"What are you doing?!" John shouted.

"Do you want her to escape?!" Sherlock added.

"Shut up!" Lestrade began, "Look."

The three bewildered men studied the girl. Her long dark hair fell in waves around her hips and the white knee length gown she wore became heavier with the rain which fell on it. She was laughing and smiling, lifting her head and sticking out her tongue to catch the falling droplets. Splashing through puddles with her bare feet, she raised her arms in complete happiness and contentment. For the first time in all the years she had been stuck inside, finally, she was free!


	9. The unparental type

Placing his hand on Emily's shoulder, Sherlock whispered in her ear, "We have to go." Parting her hair so it fell in front of her shoulders, the girl turned to face him, the rain dripping off her tormented skin.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

Sherlock simply smiled and led her away from the rain storm outside.

Whilst waiting to board the plane in the departure lounge, John returned to the group with three coffees, a hot chocolate – as Emily frankly stated that coffee tasted like dirt, to which Lestrade responded, "well what do expect; it was ground this morning" – and a small box tucked under his arm.

"What's that?" Emily demanded almost immediately.

John grinned and handed her the box. Tearing away the tape holding it shut, Emily pulled open the gift. Staring down at the box on her lap, the girl sat unresponsive.

"Well?" John asked warily, afraid he had made a huge mistake. "What do you think?"

Emily looked up at the doctor. Throwing herself towards him, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, hugging him tightly.

"I love them." Emily said after a moment quiet and a few relieved exhales from Lestrade. Reaching in to the box, the girl pulled out her first new pair of shoes; a bright red pair of converse. Slipping them tentatively onto her feet, she tucked the laces down the sides (mainly because she couldn't tie a shoelace). Strutting ecstatically up and down in front of John, she showed off the new present; her hands on her hips and a grin on her face.

As Emily entertained herself with her new shoes, Sherlock sat further away, mumbling distractedly to himself as he clicked the keys on his phone, typing rapidly. The girl hopped over, squeaking her shoes on the floor to make herself known to him.

"Ahem," she began; leaning down to her father's cast away face.

"What." He said, almost dismissively.

Emily stood more upright, the elated smile slowly fading off her face at Sherlock's bemusement.

"Err," she began again, "John bought me a pair of shoes, aren't they awesome?"

Sherlock looked down at her feet, a great frown creeping across his brow.

"When did you get those?" Sherlock asked with a frustrated tone lingering in the back of his throat.

"I told you. John just bought them for me."

"Why would he buy you shoes? You were perfectly fine without."

Sherlock looked back to his phone, indicating he hardly wanted to have a conversation with anyone right now.

"Maybe he bought them because he is a good person." Emily said, choking back the frustration which wanted to crawl out of her mouth and tear something apart.

"Maybe." Sherlock replied, still too occupied to talk.

"Unlike someone I know." Emily added under her breath.

Sherlock's icy blue eyes darted to meet with his daughters which were even colder and had turned to arrow slits as they stared at one another.

"Really?" Sherlock said, "And who might that be?"

Emily leaned closer to her father, not daring to lose her nerve or back down; not allowing him to see any flicker of weakness inside of her. Spinning abruptly on her heel, she flicked her long, dark her across her father's face and stormed off to sit by the window. Sherlock looked back to his phone and continued to type.

* * *

Looking out at the rain, Emily gazed angrily at her reflection. A single tear rolled down her bruised cheek. Immediately wiping it away, she turned to see if anyone had noticed. As she thought, everyone was far too busy to pay attention to her. John was stood by a pay phone, presumably talking to Mary by the smile on his face, Lestrade was catching a half hours nap before the traumatic flight and Sherlock was still typing on his phone. Moriarty did not wish to attend the flight with the others and so left to go and "do what he does best".

_Can all passengers attending flight 97200 returning to London, Heathrow, please make their way to gate 17 please, thank you!_

The uninspiring voice of the flight attendant over the airport intercom echoed around the small room, alerting the group and many others. Lestrade trotted over to collect Emily from the window as Sherlock and John strode towards the gate and then on to the plane.

* * *

Walking out of the airport, the group and Emily wandered dozily towards the car park. Donovan stood by two police cars which were parked with their blue lights on and an armed officer in each.

"What's all this for?" John asked Lestrade.

"She _is_ still wanted for serial murder John." He replied.

Clambering into an unmarked police car, Sherlock beckoned John to go with him.

"You're not going with Emily?" John said to the detective.

"No." he responded flatly, smiling half-heartedly at his friend.

John watched as Lestrade placed Emily carefully into the car after he had told Donovan to put her gun away.

Emily stared through the window, locking eyes with John. She smiled, but there was only a dull, hollow feeling inside her. Sherlock felt nothing for her, even as a father. He was as emotionless and solid as usual. It hardly seemed that he was the parental type anyway.

Sherlock hadn't stopped texting for the entire journey between Poland and London. Even as they were driving back to 221B, his fingers hadn't stopped the rhythmic clicking of buttons.

Buzz

Sherlock's phone vibrated. He scrolled to the top of his inbox.

_"At least make an effort, she won't stay sane for long you know – JM"_

Sherlock remained unreactive, yet something sparked.

_This girl is dangerous, _he thought, _if Moriarty was the one who suggested we bring her here, then perhaps…_

Sherlock's train of thought stopped as the unmarked police car carrying Donovan, Lestrade and Emily exploded into a raging inferno of fire and smoke.


	10. Devestation

It was like the world was playing in slow motion. The clouds of ash fell softly around the detective's feet. John sprinted over to the burning vehicle, coughing and wheezing, desperate to see if anyone had survived, although the probabilities weren't in his favour. Sherlock hoped that what he was seeing was a horrible, unforgiving nightmare. In minutes, the police had surrounded the car accompanied by several dozen paramedics and camera crews.

"Sir, are you alright?" one of the police officers asked Sherlock.

"I..." Sherlock stuttered. He didn't know how he felt. The past ten minutes had been a complete blur of a cacophony of noise and burning. Suddenly, from behind the wreckage, a policeman called out for help,

"I've got one!" he shouted, waving over his colleagues for assistance. Crawling out of the car was Lestrade, spluttering and squinting against the blinding daylight.

"Wait, stop that." Lestrade struggled to get his words out between the chokes of dusty air. Reaching back into the car, Lestrade's eyes were wide with extreme anxiety. Clawing through the twisted pieces of smouldering metal, the brave DI launched himself into the vehicle one last time.

"What are you doing, man? You could get yourself killed!" a police officer called, grabbing hold of Greg Lestrade's ankle.

"SHE'S STILL IN HERE!" he shouted back from inside the white hot twisted wreck. Sherlock's eyes fogged with a glimmer of hope as he jogged over to John stood by where Lestrade re-entered the car.

There was a dead silence. Nobody dared to move or even breathe. The fire crackled as it began to die down slightly. The metal frame of the police car began to shift and jolt. Pointing their cameras towards the wreckage, the whole nation was waiting, watching for any sign of life. Fire engines began pulling up in their masses; clamp cutters, hoses and teams of people all piling in to add to the lunacy. Suddenly, emerging feet first out of the wreckage again was Lestrade, but this time cradling Emily's head, pulling her limp, ash covered body away from the flames.

Almost throwing themselves at Lestrade, the teams of paramedics, camera crews and of course John, came careering in a sea of voices and sweaty, excited bodies.

"Donovan?" John towards the ashen vehicle then back to Lestrade. He simply shook his head. Donovan wasn't in the wreckage anymore, but somewhere else. Away from the cameras, away from the noise and away from the blinding light of the sun which perfectly illuminated the scene for all to see, mocking.

Scooping Emily out of Lestrade's arms, the paramedics bustled her onto a stretcher and then swiftly into an ambulance.

"Are her parents around here somewhere?" one of the paramedics said.

Both John and Lestrade simultaneously looked to Sherlock who was sat cross legged on the pavement, a smashed up mobile phone a metre or so away from him. The paramedic walked over to him, placing a blanket around his shoulders (for the second time).

"Sir, would you like to come with us please. We are rushing your daughter to the hospital. We are afraid that she may have taken a rather serious blow to the side of her head which, if not treated, could turn into a bleed in the brain. If again left for too long; she could develop seizures, epileptic fits, nerve damage and in extreme cases, various forms of dementia.

"I see." Sherlock replied unconsciously.

"Please follow me." The paramedic tried to smile but ended up grimacing as she showed Sherlock to where his daughter lay cold and fragile. Her head was bleeding and she was plastered head to toe in bruises and gashes. She looked so innocent; angelic lying in her white robe. That is, until Sherlock noticed the large blood stain on her hip.

"What's that?" he said pointing, his voice cracking as he swallowed his emotions back down.

Looking where he was pointing, the paramedic's eyes widened.

"We need some more help over here! It looks like she has taken a large wound to the hip and stomach area. She is losing blood quickly and needs immediate medical attention. I'm sorry, but you're going to have to just follow us to the hospital and give us room to work."

Sherlock backed out of the ambulance as three more paramedics entered, bustling past him. He stood helplessly as he watched the blue lights flicker and move away from him. The sirens began to wail their demonic chant accompanied by the beeping of horns and squeaking suspension.

"Sherlock, get in!" John called from the car in which both Sherlock and he were spared. Hurrying eagerly to the passenger side door, Sherlock clambered into the vehicle.

"Follow the ambulance." Sherlock said, as he fixed his seat belt into the fastener with a shaky click.

John sensed the nervousness in his friend. "She's going to be alright" he said comfortingly.

"You didn't see the blood." Sherlock replied, looking straight at the back of the ambulance, as if he could see through it; hoping he could see through it, to make sure his daughter was safe.

* * *

Sitting in an isolated room, Sherlock sat tapping his feet on the floor. The door opened slowly. There stood john, a sympathetic glisten in his eye and a small stain down one cheek. Everyone was distressed and upset. The loss of Donovan hit everyone – even Sherlock Holmes – yet the injury of Emily _devastated_ everyone.

There was an unnatural silence about the hospital. The staff, the nurses, the patients; were all sullen and quiet. Nobody quite knew why, but they were quiet all the same.

The room in which John and Sherlock were seated was a plain white. There were a number of seats with a pasty looking green covering and a small stack of magazines piled to one side.

"No news?" John asked purely to break the tangible silence that you could cut through. Sherlock simply looked up gravely without another word. He sent a thought and John received it.

"Oh," he began, "well, no news is good news, right?"

Again, Sherlock did not respond. He was too busy thinking about how short he was with her in Poland, at the airport. He thought to himself, _how could I have been so occupied in a mobile phone to not want to talk to the most amazing person ever to come in to my life? Selfish, that's what I am; selfish. _

As Sherlock was wrestling with his conscience again, a nurse calmly wandered in to the room.

"You may see her now, if you like." She said, trying to smile and be comforting, but failing dramatically. Sherlock braced himself for what was next to come.

* * *

The first thing Sherlock heard as he entered Emily's room was the rhythmic beeping of the heart rate monitor. Then there was Emily herself. The strange combination of breathing and wheezing filled the atmosphere in the room with an unsettling, disturbing air. Looking at his daughter, he couldn't help but think that he was at fault.

The door clicked open once again. Only john turned around to see who had entered. Lestrade, his face covered in bruises, cuts and a burn the size of a tennis ball, staggered uneasily into the room, sighing and frowning as he saw Emily and Sherlock.

The girl's face was surfaced with small burns, which had been treated, but still looked painful and swollen. The oxygen mask which covered the majority of her face concealed a broken nose and a, now stitched up, torn lip.

"This is my fault." Sherlock said quietly.

"Don't be stupid!" John replied hastily.

"You saw her face. She didn't want to be near me! If I was a better parent I… I would've been able to protect her in the first place."

Lestrade put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Well, we're lucky she's still here." He said wincing as his burn began to cease up slightly on his face.

"Thank you." Sherlock said in return.

"For what?"

"Thank you for saving her life; for opening my eyes, Greg!" Sherlock turned to face the DI. Sherlock held out his hand. Lestrade grasped it firmly and shook it.

* * *

Sherlock had been sitting by Emily's side for roughly an hour. She hadn't stirred. A nurse had been in offering tea or coffee at which Sherlock replied, "No thank you, I'm too busy watching my child."

The nurse left, rolling her eyes and saying nothing, leaving Sherlock in an irritable mood.

Emily's heart rate monitor repeated the same, unconscious droning rhythm which lulled the detective into a somewhat dream like aura. He began to almost nod along to the beat, until it got faster, and faster, and faster. Sherlock snapped himself out of the trance like phase, alerting his senses and quickening his pulse and mind.

"HELP!" he shouted, "I NEED HELP OVER HERE!"

Three nurses bustled into the room primed with needles and phials full of clear and purple liquids. Suddenly, sitting bolt up-right, her eyes gaping and terrified, Emily ripped the mask from her face throwing it beside her. A nurse tried to restrain the girl, but the crazed look in its eyes struck fear into her. Emily clamped her hand to the nurse's arm, digging her nails deeper and deeper into the soft flesh of her forearm, causing a thick trickle of warm blood to appear. The nurse began to scream and panic, alerting passers-by who swiftly joined in on the action.

Sherlock stood completely shell-shocked in one corner of the room. As the nurses injected needle after needle of inoculation fluids into Emily, her eyes began to relax and contracted back down. She groaned and wheezed as she slipped slowly into an induced sleep. The tension in the nurse's demeanour became lessened. Emily was going to be inactive for a number of hours.

"What did you give her?" Sherlock asked, still completely petrified by what he had witnessed.

"Just about enough antihistamine to knock out a raging bull for the night." A younger nurse said, a sly grin stretching from one ear to the other.

The detective slid over to Emily's bedside, placing his hand carefully on top of hers. Emily began to twitch, not in the sense of a spasm, but like she was awakening from a nightmare. Her eyes flickered beneath her lids, but she could not open them. She twitched her fingers, but she could not move them. The girl began to panic, her heart rate increasing. Sherlock patted her hand and smoothed the hair away from her face. Only then did he see where her head had been glued to repair a small crack.

"Don't worry. It's ok now." Sherlock said soothingly. Emily stopped twitching and almost sighed with relief. She mumbled slightly, trying to speak.

"I…didn't…. mean… to…" she moaned.


	11. Manipulation

The words seemed to echo around the room. _I didn't mean to_. Sherlock stared at the girl lying helplessly in her hospital bed.

"You didn't mean to what?" he thought to himself out loud, not expecting an answer from her.

"To…." She mumbled forcing herself with all the strength left in her to say what she so desperately wanted to say.

Sherlock sat forward in his seat, holding the foot of the bed with both hands as if to steady him.

"You didn't mean to what, Emily?" he asked again, this time much sterner.

"To kill anyone…" her whispered voice trailed off as the drugs she was given began to kick in and knock her out.

_Huh, of course you didn't, _Sherlock thought to himself, sitting back deeper into his chair. _People always say things like that. They claim to be innocent to hide the obvious truth. Does she really think I'm **that **stupid? Or that I have… feelings? I should think not._

"Err, Mr Holmes?" the nurse who offered him tea had come back for round two.

"The doctor would like to speak with you, sir." She stuttered.

Sherlock observed that since her last visit she had changed her hair slightly, put on a fresh coat of mascara and some lip gloss. Sherlock smiled to himself. She was just like Molly was; desperate to attract his undying attention – only this girl looked slightly on the manic side. He thought about making one of his usual, 'I can pretty much read you like a book' type of comments, but decided against it after what happened with Molly.

"Where is he?" he asked, an unaffectionate smile on his face.

"Oh, just out in the hallway." She said, slightly dazed.

"Thank you." Sherlock said, squeezing past the girl whilst attempting not to touch her. It was no use. She was pretty much blocking any chance of an easy escape. Cringing inwardly, the detective placed his hand on the girl's shoulder and apologised gentlemanly.

"No," she said, a shocked tone in her voice, "I'm in the way!"

_Yes, you are_ Sherlock thought,

"It's okay." He replied. Sherlock wasn't in the mood to be cruel to idle, flirtatious young women.

The detective went out into the corridor and saw the doctor stood by a computer on a stand a few metres ahead of him. He heard some giggles behind him and turned to see the young nurse trotting back to her two friends, waving her hands excitedly and smiling; typical.

"Ah, Mr Holmes, I presume?" the doctor pondered.

He was an elderly gentleman, probably in his late sixties, perhaps early seventies. Sherlock studied the man in his head and thought to himself,

'_This man is probably divorced or at least unhappily married due to the indentation around the bottom of his forefinger where a ring has been removed. His steady hands indicated he was a very well-practiced surgeon at one point but now tends to work on the wards, perhaps as a form of retirement. The watch he is wearing is an old model but very clean. Obviously he cares about it enough to keep it safe. He must be in his second marriage. Since he treasures his watch so much it must have been a gift; a gift from his first wife. Usually people wouldn't keep things from ex-partners but no, this one was special. Perhaps she passed away, yes, the scars on his eyebrow and on his forehead and cheekbones look older. It was a car crash. This much damage to the head must have been a pretty hard knock, well, hard enough to kill her. So, who was to blame? Was…'_

"Mr Holmes?" the doctor asked, frowning slightly.

"Oh, sorry." Sherlock said in his un-amused tone.

"I must speak with you about Emily."

Sherlock looked gravely at the doctor. He knew Emily's injuries looked severe as soon as he set foot in the ambulance and saw the pool of red blood staining her clothes. He braced himself once again for the horrifying news.

"Did you know that you're daughter was taking drugs?" the doctor asked, keeping his voice low for privacy's sake.

"W…what?" Sherlock was somewhat relieved but still shocked at the news.

"Yes," the doctor continued, "we don't know what yet, but it has been enough to actually cause quite a bit of harm to her. Luckily we have managed to separate what we could from the blood stream, and hopefully the body will eliminate what it can from the system… manually."

Sherlock's eyes were wide and his mouth was gaping and speechless.

"I know it is a lot to take in, but we will help with whatever further treatment she may require in due course.

From out of a little room, a small man in a lab coat came scurrying over to the doctor.

"Ah, thank you Timothy. You can go now." The old man dismissively waved his hand away, and, like a trained little dog, Timothy scuttled back into his room.

The doctor examined the papers Timothy gave to him. His face folded into a mass of confusion and bewilderment.

"Err," he began, clearing his throat.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked equally confused.

"Well, it seems that your daughter has been taking, lysergic acid diethylamide, or more commonly known as LSD. It is a very potent hallucinogenic and is one of the most potent mood-changing chemicals around. It is made from the lysergic acid which is found in ergot, a fungus that grows on rye and other grains."

"How toxic is it?" Sherlock asked, his heart beating faster. With his degree in chemistry, Sherlock knew perfectly well what would happen to Emily, and he also knew that if he told John, he would know perfectly well too, but something about the situation made Sherlock feel almost like a child again; not able to do or say anything to help the current predicament so just goes with the general train of thought that most people would catch onto.

"The effects of LSD depend largely on the amount taken. LSD causes dilated pupils; can raise body temperature and increase heart rate and blood pressure; and can cause profuse sweating, loss of appetite, sleeplessness, dry mouth, and tremors." The doctor began to rub his hands anxiously; this was a first in his type of work.

"Oh," Sherlock started, "so how much have you found inside her?"

The doctor sighed as if he had already anticipated the question.

"More than enough." He said.

Sherlock's hands became clammy and sweaty. He didn't want to show his nervousness and so casually wiped them on the back of his jacket.

"These hallucinogenic substances have been used in the past by certain groups to… well, control people's actions. I fear that she has been used by these individuals to perform, you know, crimes of _that _magnitude."

"I understand." Sherlock said sullenly. "Keep me informed, about her… progress." He turned to go.

"And Sherlock," the doctor added, "you don't want to go after these people. They're dangerous. You have a strong girl here, Mr Holmes. If they can control her, they can control anyone; including you. Please keep that in mind."

The detective turned up his coat collar, walking briskly down the corridor and to the lifts. He pressed for the ground floor and looked straight ahead of him. He didn't care what the doctor said; he was going to catch those manipulative psychopaths if, well, it killed him.


	12. Deceptive

Calling for a cab as he stood by the roadside, he watched as the busy shoppers of London scurried about in their own little worlds. _How normal and simple their lives are compared with mine_, Sherlock thought to himself. The cab pulled up in front of him. He never really trusted cabs after what happened with the old man who used the 50/50 chance pills – he made his victims choose one out of two pills and then take it; he won every time. Before settling into the journey, Sherlock studied the driver. He was fine, for now.

"Long day for you, sir?" the cab driver cheerfully looked into his rear view mirror to catch eyes with Sherlock.

"I suppose." The detective's eyes never left his phone.

"What about that explosion then, caw, it shuddered my house fair."

"Did it now." Sherlock was not in the mood for this man's 'conversation', no matter how _riveting_ it was.

"Well, I do hope no one got hurt." The driver stated. Sherlock's eyes shot up to glare the man in the face, partly as a 'can you please just not' kind of way, and partly in an 'I don't want to talk about this now' kind of way.

"Here we are." The cabby said, completely oblivious to Sherlock's death stares.

* * *

Wandering up the stairs of 221B, Sherlock opened the door to a small group of chattering, anxious faces. There, in his little apartment, was Molly, Mrs Hudson, poor Lestrade, Anderson (surprisingly), Janine, Mary and of course John; who looked more nervous than the whole group put together. Mrs Hudson was dabbing her eyes with a piece of tissue as she went over to hug Sherlock.

"How is she dear?" the old landlady said tearfully.

Sherlock said nothing, only stared at a fixed point in the room and sat down in his usual place in front of the window. Everyone moved out of his way and formed a semi-circle around him. Sherlock picked up his violin and began to pluck incessantly at the E string.

"Oh, my boy." Mrs Hudson broke down in tears and took herself out of the room followed by Mary and Janine who escorted her down the stairs.

John pulled up the stool to sit perpendicular to Sherlock, leaving the chair for Lestrade who took the hint and sat down. Molly nudged Anderson, who looked 'uncharacteristically sombre' and went into the kitchen to leave the three men room to talk.

"How was she then?" John asked, bursting the bubble of deep thought and silence.

"It wasn't her fault." Sherlock muttered, tugging at the E string a few more times.

"Well, no it wasn't. When the car exploded…"

"I'm not talking about that." Sherlock interrupted, snapping at John.

Lestrade leaned forward slightly in his seat. "Then what _are _you talking about?"

Sherlock stood and began to pace up and down the room, at which point Molly and Anderson had re-entered from the kitchen.

"The hospital found a deadly quantity of lysergic acid diethylamide in her system,"

"LSD." Lestrade said promptly, a look on his face which said, 'I beat you to it John!'

"Yes," Sherlock continued, "in large amounts, this hallucinogenic can cause people to completely lose their minds."

"So what you're saying is that someone has forced dear little Emily to take drugs?" Anderson added smarmily.

"Yes Anderson; that is exactly what I am saying." Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"Rubbish." Anderson muttered.

"Can you just leave, please; you are lowering the IQ of the whole street, again!" Sherlock said, not even bothering to look at Anderson's face which was wrought with defeat.

"So one minute," Lestrade began, "there is a gang involved in the murders of those six people? That means they must be connected somehow."

"Yes, well..." Sherlock stopped, taking in a sharp breath. "YES! SHUT UP! EVERYBODY SHUT UP! DON'T MOVE! DON'T SPEAK! ANDERSON I DON'T WANT TO LOOK AT YOU!" the detective paced the room, snapping his fingers and never ceased to mumble.

"That's it!" he shouted at long last.

John sighed in relief at his friend's epiphany.

"Oh! They thought they were being clever; using a little girl to do the dirty work while they roll in the profit."

"Profit?" John asked.

"So that means that they weren't alone; they were working for someone, a boss; a chieftain; someone who has knowledge of everyone, everywhere." Sherlock stated.

"Moriarty?" Lestrade pondered.

"No, if he had anything to do with this then he wouldn't have shown up at the airport. No, this person has a job on the inside. He would be able to manipulate the coming and going of these hallucinogenic substances and get people to look like they are the ones in charge when in actual fact…" Sherlock's words ended. He began to think.

_Who was the one who first told John about Emily_? _Who was the one who never let my parents into the loop? Who has government intelligence and a perfect alibi? Who is the number one person who has a lifelong grudge to hold over me?..._

_"Son of a bitch." Sherlock ran out of the room, not even bothering with his coat._

"Where are you going now!?" John shouted.

Sherlock reappeared around the doorframe, "Mycroft."


	13. The Trout

Following closely behind the frustrated detective, John shuffled quickly after the dark curls of his friend.

"Taxi!" Sherlock shouted with his hand elevated toward the roadside.

"Mycroft; really?" John asked with a puzzled look about his face.

"Yes John and I don't think I have ever been surer about anything in my life, just to be clear." The detective replied harshly.

Sherlock shrugged the coat which John handed him over his shoulders and fixed his grey scarf around his neck. As they clambered into the taxi which pulled slowly up to the curb, Sherlock barked the directions to the driver.

"Righty-ho sir!" the driver responded cheerfully.

* * *

The taxi arrived promptly at the stately home of Sherlock's older brother Mycroft. The pair bounded up the stairs before Sherlock thudded angrily at the dark oak door.

"Let me in Mycroft!" Sherlock bellowed as he peered through a close by window.

As the door opened gently, the two looked upon the bleeding, pale face of Mycroft Holmes. Almost as soon as he released the handle of the door, Mycroft fell onto the cold stone floor of his front porch.

"Mycroft!" John yelled, leaping to the man's side, flipping him over and pressing an ear tentatively on his chest.

"He's not breathing." John gasped, taking in a worried breath.

Stepping discourteously over his brother, Sherlock wandered into the house. Everything seemed fine. The windows were intact; the doors were all closed; the floorboards were perfectly polished; it was just like Mycroft to be so clean what with his unconscious obsessive compulsive disorders.

The detective walked into the study of Mycroft. His books were neatly placed in alphabetical order based on author and arranged further by book title on a mahogany bookshelf. Sherlock ran his finger along the top of the shelf and examined the tip up close. _No dust, _he thought. Then he looked to the desk. He skimmed another finger over the surface and examined the tip again. _Filthy, _he thought, yet, his stationery looked as though it had been placed on show and never before used. The pens were placed lovingly next to a closed pad of paper bound in oxblood leather with the golden initials- _MH_. Sherlock giggled childishly to himself hoping it would be Mycroft's diary but stopped smirking when he opened it to find small ink drawings in the corners of all the pages. It was a flip book. Sherlock picked up the book and flipped through from back to front, whipping each page rapidly between his thumb and forefinger. As he examined the moving image, he watched as the picture changed.

The beginning image was of a simple fisherman in his boat, a rod dangling over the side. As the image progressed, a small fish began to circle the boat before growing twice its original size and leaping out of the inky water and over the boat, swallowing the pictured fisherman whole. Sherlock jolted backwards, dropping the notepad. It landed wide open on the floor, the words, **_be careful what you fish for_**, were etched messily onto the page above a grinning trout. This was not the work of his brother.

Crouching to pick up the notebook, Sherlock hesitated. From out of nowhere, classical music began to play. The record player in the room was not working and, judging by the layer of dust, had not been used for at least a decade. Running wildly around the house Sherlock could not find the source of the repetitive piano runs. Then, the sotto voice of a German gentleman began to sound, echoing around the house. Thinking back to listening to his father play classical music in the household as a child, Sherlock identified the piece as Shubert's 'Die Forelle' or better known as in laymen's terms, 'the trout.'

"Sherlock, where are you?" John's agitated voice called for the porch.

Sherlock raced through the hallway to find his friend puzzling over Mycroft's inner thigh. Sherlock padded cautiously over to where John was looking. Sticking out of his leg was a tiny dart; small enough to conceal in a pocket match box. John dabbed the end on to his finger tip and sampled the liquid before instantaneously spitting it out.

"Poison." He stated surely. John whipped out his mobile phone, dialling for an ambulance and scurrying down the stairs in search of reception.

Sherlock on the other hand stayed with his brother. The music was coming to an end. As he listened he shuddered at the last two lines-

_"Meist fehlt ihr nur aus Mangel, der Klugheit, Mädchen, seht verführer mit der angel! Sonst blutet ihr zu spät!"_

Sherlock translated the lines out loud, dreading every syllable that left his chapping lips- _'Tis oft for want of reason_ _that maids will shun the straight._ _Beware the anglers' treason,_ _else you may bleed too late!_

"Oh, Mycroft," Sherlock looked at his brother's crippled body, barely breathing as it lay on the cold floor, "what have you done?"


	14. Imbeciles

Sitting in the deafening silence of the hospital waiting room for a second time took its toll on the two friends. Sherlock stared at an empty patch of floor as John tapped his feet ceaselessly on the ground which was as equally as cold as the stone floor Mycroft landed on. The image of his brother's pale emotionless face lingered behind the detective's eyes. Blinking away the foul thoughts Sherlock reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the leather bound notebook. Flipping through the pages again, the detective watched the image of the poor fisherman flip and change. This message was not for him, but for his brother. He must have been digging into something he didn't understand; something far too powerful to determine and was eaten by the metaphorical trout. Sherlock could only hope that he had nothing to do with the alteration of Emily.

"Mr Holmes, you may see your brother now." The nurse from a side room called.

Sherlock didn't feel the need to acknowledge her and simply stood and dragged his feet through the double swinging doors.

There it was again; the incessant beeping of a heart rate monitor. Sighing gravely, Sherlock studied his brother's beaten figure. His chest was bandaged; the elementary sign of a broken rib. His left arm was in plaster and the other hand had two fingers strapped together. As he was breathing heavily his mouth opened slightly showing the blackened gap of a missing tooth, probably smashed out of his gums by an unfriendly set of knuckles. The most obvious injury was his bruised eye which had caused the surrounding area to become as swollen and inflamed as his burst lip.

"What have you gotten yourself into now, you stupid old fool?" Sherlock said as he collapsed into the chair at his brother's bedside.

"I can hear you, you know." The lax, unflustered tone of Mycroft broke the unbearable tension.

"Well?" Sherlock responded, as equally as emotionless, "What did they say? Or better still, what did _YOU_ say?"

"Huh," Mycroft sighed and adjusted his position in his rather unfashionable hospital attire.

"The gentleman who, well, attacked me, was, how do we explain this; a speaker on behalf of those involved with Emily's 'transformation' I think was how he put it. He told me to stop hiding my daughter and give her in."

"Wait, your daughter?"

"Sherley, they thought I was you. And, I went with it, so you bloody well get these psychopathic violators locked up sooner or later because I am NOT doing that again. Be happy that I didn't tell him he had the wrong man, or you would be RIGHT HERE!" Mycroft thudded his thigh and winced slightly at a bruise which he never knew he had. Still, he glared at his brother.

Behind Sherlock's eyes, Mycroft could see the cogs and wheels of his mind turning at one hundred miles per hour. He was thinking; puzzling; solving.

Sherlock began to think; he travelled deeper and deeper into his mind palace, only to come out with nothing.

"I need to be alone. Don't move." Sherlock strode out of the room completely disregarding his brother's agony.

"Oh, well, I'll just stay here then." Mycroft muttered to the empty room.

* * *

"John, we're leaving." Sherlock waltzed straight past his partner at the vending machine who was in the middle of deciding whether to buy salt and vinegar or cheese and onion crisps, but this 'life-changing' decision was going to have to wait.

A taxi was already sitting outside with orders to return to 221B as soon as possible. Clambering into the taxi, John read Sherlock's face with difficulty. He sat with his eyes shut, a deep crease of concentration stretching across his brow. He lay back in his seat, folding his arms across his chest and breathed deeply. John sat and stared at his partner's admirable immersion of thoughts and memories that seemed to capacitate the vast majority of his mind.

Sherlock took a fast inhalation of air and sat bolt upright in his chair.

"Right," he began, "Mycroft was attacked because the person whom he was attacked by was a complete imbecile. He was actually after me, which actually makes a lot more sense than going after Mycroft because he's an idiot, but a very smart idiot…"

"Yes we get it, you're very smart and your brother's an idiot, continue." John smiled and sighed with an unflustered anticipation.

"This imbecile wasn't just any imbecile but an imbecile belonging to our child trafficking and mysterious killer. He was sent to deliver an extremely painful message from his boss and obviously messed it up." Sherlock's voice became laced with rage and venom.

"Really..." John hummed as he casually averted his gaze to somewhere on the other side of the window.

"Yes." Sherlock said sardonically, "Where was I?"

"The imbecile fucked it up." John said as composed as he could muster.

"Oh yes," Sherlock snapped his gaze to the doctor and back to where he was staring with concentration.

"That means that he thinks that Sherlock Holmes is sat in the hospital broken and bleeding from his 'handy work'. Oh John - this is marvellous! This stupid moron won't know what's coming to him! When he goes back he -knowing his type – will want to see what a mess he made of Mycroft and walk straight into a trap! This is wonderful, it really is, isn't it John?"

"Yeah." John mumbled as he was texting Mary, clearly bored by Sherlock's ramblings.

"Well, I'm sorry to keep you awake." Sherlock retorted under his breath.

"What was that?" John asked dreamily.

Sherlock simply smiled and gazed elsewhere.

"Imagine, the blaring blue lights of the London Metropolitan screaming towards the hospital with Lestrade and the others from Scotland Yard bursting through the door to discover a shell-shocked mug who, as we already know his type, will lead us straight to his leader and…"

"You will be able to capture them, lock them all tightly away behind iron bars and be able to live a peaceful life with your daughter." John was now looking straight into his friend's eyes which were wide and full of surprise.

"Yes John. I will finally settle down; just as you wish." Sherlock reclined again in his seat and watched the bustling streets of London wash by his window. He sighed again, this time more contently. Things were falling into place, and he knew that at the end of the dark tunnel that was his life, Emily was standing there with arms spread wide.

_Buzz_

Sherlock pulled his phone out of his trouser pocket and stared at the three word message displayed on the screen – _Not so fast._


	15. Woman's intuition

Sherlock stared vacantly at the screen.

"What?" John saw the concern in his friend's face.

Sherlock said nothing and just handed his phone to the doctor.

"Oh." John's face creased into a deep frown. "I… I don't…"

"Me either." Sherlock tucked his phone back into his pocket, glancing blankly out of the window as he tapped the heels of his shoes together.

* * *

Rushing out of the taxi and into 221B, again, Sherlock and John busied about the flat. John had prior called Lestrade and was half way through calling Mary in hope that she knew who can track a blocked number. Sherlock was sat at his laptop, tapping the keys quickly and groaning when he made a typing error.

"Come on you stupid machine!" Sherlock thumped the side of the keyboard hard causing all of his work to disappear off the screen as it turned black. The detective grabbed a nearby pencil and bit down hard onto it before snapping it in two over his knee.

There was a knock at the door. Lestrade wandered in, setting down a large untidy bag of distorted looking leads and cables.

"What kind of internet connection have you got?" he asked busily.

"A terrible one." Mary said as she shuffled through the door carrying a heavy briefcase. Opening up the case she revealed a much organised set of coiled up wires, all numbered and tied with small plastic loops. In a pocket at the side was a small tablet, only about the size of a purse.

Lestrade looked at Mary's bag and back at his own.

"I'll leave you lot to it then. Anyone for tea?" he asked slightly dishearteningly.

"Oh yes please Greg." Mary smiled at him. Lestrade acknowledge the smile but rolled his eyes when he turned away childishly.

"One sugar and milk if you will." She called.

A deep sigh sounded from the kitchen.

"Now, how are we going to do this?" John pondered his wife who was slipping on a pair of gloves.

Mary gave her husband a knowing look, "Sherlock, give me your phone."

The trained assassin began to fit lead after lead into the back of the detective's mobile phone before clipping the ends into the sides of the tablet.

"Mary," John began, "where did you get all of this?"

Again, Mary simply smiled and tapped the side of her nose before grinning profusely.

"Now, find the message and display the number on screen." She said.

Scrolling to the top of the messages, Sherlock pulled up the puzzling three word text, grimacing at the number reading** 'blocked'**.

"Here." He said, showing his phone to Mary.

The screen of the tablet suddenly illuminated with a map of the countryside around the outskirts of London.

Everyone leaned closer to the image in dire anticipation. The screen began to buffer.

"Come on. Work!" Mary yelled at the machine, hitting the back of it with the palm of her hand.

"I told you, terrible connection." Lestrade called from the kitchen as he stirred a cup of tea increasingly slower as the glare of the two obviously highly irritable gentlemen burned into the front of his skull.

The machine began to blip as it scanned for the mobile device.

"This may take a little while," Mary began, "so that tea would be nice about now Greg." She called to the kitchen.

Lestrade waddled out of the kitchen wearing one of Mrs Hudson's 'kiss the cook' aprons and carrying a tray, prepared with four cups of tea in similarly sized mugs and a plate of biscuits, neatly arranged into a spiral pattern.

Everyone sniggered at the detective inspector.

"What?" he looked himself up and down before setting the tray carefully onto a stool.

"I don't want the tea to mark my suit." He said confidently.

Sherlock and John looked at each other and began to laugh heartily at the rather fabulous looking Greg Lestrade.

Mary slapped Johns arm teasingly.

"Be nice to him. I think that's an ingenious idea Greg." Mary said beaming as the two oversized six year olds laughed even harder at Mrs Lestrade.

_Beep Beep Beep_

The laughter stopped as Mary picked up the device. She raised herself to her feet and looked up at Sherlock who was now stood too.

Mary stared emptily at the monitor for a moment or two before she sighed and looked ever so slightly tearfully at the detective, "Just look." She said, handing the tablet over to Sherlock.

Without a second to lose, Sherlock was putting on his coat and storming out of the door.

"What is it? Where are they?" John began to tail after his friend before halting at the door at the words,

"Sherlock's parents."


	16. Systematic

John and Sherlock arrived at the house in silence. When observing the countryside cottage from a distance, everything appeared normal; it was so normal it had to be a lie; it had to be a cover for something.

"It's just like when we went to Mycroft's house." John muttered.

The image of his brother's pale, broken body collapsing to the floor sprang into Sherlock's mind. He blinked away the thought.

"After you." John said, ushering his friend towards the partly open door.

Sherlock grasped the handle and turned it tentatively to the right. He stepped slowly into the hallway and lightened his footing as the sound and sensation of shards of broken glass cracked beneath his feet. _Odd_, he thought.

Looking the spotless living room up and down, Sherlock examined the scene. Taking out his pocket magnifying slide, Sherlock inspected the windows, doors, walls, rugs and furniture for any minor signs of an attempt to hide a murder scene.

"It looks as though they were taken, wouldn't you say, Sherlock?" John added, following the detective slowly around the living room.

"No," Sherlock replied, "I wouldn't."

"Then…" John paused for thought.

"My parents are crafty old devils. This is a message, John; we just need to decipher it, room by room, systematically."

"That sounds about right, them being **_your_** parents." John retorted.

"Well," Sherlock shrugged modestly, "they would have wanted me to think; think back to the times when I was here every day of my life. What did I do when I was a child?" Sherlock bounded out of the room, swiftly followed by his faithful little hound of a best friend.

"So," Sherlock closed his eyes and began to mutter. He was in his mind palace; searching, seeking, firing signals to his memory to trigger whatever was left of his childhood which had been eliminated long ago.

Sherlock opened his eyes suddenly.

"Got it! Mycroft and I never walked to school, no, we would take our bicycles. We always raced each other down the road and Mycroft would always be in such a foul temper before dinner as I told our parents how I won this time and…"

John cut him off with the loud and obviously irritated clearing of his throat.

"Yes, well, so we would park our bikes inside the shed so nobody would take them; it was a tiresome routine, but a routine nonetheless."

Sherlock sprinted to the bike shed and was dismayed to find no clue or note or dead body in the tiny wooden shack or about any of the five metre radius around it.

"Mother, I do hope you aren't dead so I can find you and tell you how much I hate you right now." The detective cursed quietly to the sky.

"OK, so nothing at the bike shed, then what would you do?" John asked plainly.

Sherlock clicked his fingers and leaped towards the front door. John rolled his eyes as he watched his friend scamper up the stairs to his bedroom like he was a child again.

Standing in the low frame of the door, John observed as Sherlock busied around the room; upturning papers, throwing books, tearing down posters, dismantling his bedding and ripping the wallpaper straight off the wall. John looked up at the surprisingly high ceiling and smiled, shaking his head along to the chuckles.

"Aren't we missing something?" John asked casually.

"The carpet!" The detective exclaimed, looking to John for a second opinion, which, in all cases, was extremely rare.

John merely shook his head and indicated towards the ceiling. There, in bright red letters, was a postcode sprayed nonchalantly right across his room.

"Right." The detective said after an awkward silence laced with inward cringes of embarrassment. He looked to John who was still smiling in the doorway.

"Well, you don't need to be so smug about it."

"What can I say," John began, trying to squeeze in a breath through the laughter, "This is a message, Sherlock; I just needed to decipher it, room by room, systematically."

"I hate you when you're like this."

"I know." The doctor smiled and left his friend to note down the postcode.

* * *

Back at 221B, the pair typed the postcode into a GPS tracking program.

"Here we are," the detective purred casually as he saw John out of the corner of his eye looking a little lost.

"Where is the postcode from?"

"I'm looking John."

The computer blipped a few times before displaying a map of the world.

"Zoom in." John said, attempting to take control of the mouse but to at no prevail.

Automatically, Sherlock flicked his hand in a dismissive manner before magnifying onto the blip.

The detective's face creased into a frown.

"Brussels? What the hell were my parents doing in Belgium?" he asked rhetorically.

"You think that's where they are?" John asked leaning ever so slightly forward in his seat.

"No," the detective began, "but I think that is where they've been."

The phone began to ring. Sherlock looked to John to answer so he could continue researching. John huffed and staggered to the phone.

"Hello?... Err, yes, he's here… Um, who is this?... Oh right, OK. Err, Sherlock, it's for you." The doctor handed the phone to his friend who pressed it tentatively to his ear.

"Yes." He said flatly.

There was a long pause of complete silence before Sherlock uttered the words, "I never went to the hospital… Well did you look at him?... yes, well, try and find the CCTV footage from the ward she was staying on, AND QUICKLY!" Sherlock turned the phone off before throwing it at his friend.

"What has Emily done." John stated sheepishly as he watched his friend crumple into his chair.

"Emily hasn't done anything_, JOHN_, so will you please stop trying to pin EVERYTHING ON HER! SHE'S ONLY A KID FOR GOD'S SAKE AND…" Sherlock looked at his friend's understandably surprised expression and sighed as his eyes lightened into a calming heave.

The detective breathed unsteadily and interlocked his fingers briefly before leaping off the chair and grabbing his coat.

"Emily has been kidnapped by, I think, the people who took her in the first place. By my understanding, my parents think they know where he's going to take her.

"Belgium." John added.

"Precisely, my dear Watson."

John smiled as his friend grinned profusely. Sherlock clapped his hands once to awaken the situation as he ran out of the room, bag ready on hand, phone in the other. John shook his head and grimaced. Something felt uneasy in his stomach about the situation. It seemed too… prepared somehow.


	17. Lights on

Belgium was cold during the rainy winter months. The detective and his companion were all but prepared for this kind of weather. John shivered and rubbed his hands together to generate some heat as Sherlock pulled up his coat collar so that it was wrapped snugly around the back of his neck in an attempt to break the wind rushing into his back.

"W..what do ww..eee do now… g..g..genious?" John stuttered from behind his pathetic excuse for a scarf.

"Err, w..w…e ask ..for directions t..t..o… you know, the postcode…place." Sherlock stuttered back.

"Yeah, bb.. because th..that'sss not …vague!"

"Ssshhhutt upp Johnn." The detective attempted to mumble, but his lips were too chapped and blue to move again.

Sherlock whistled for a cab as well as he could be only managed to muster a slim trail of cold air from between his lips. Instead, John waved and snapped his fingers, hoping to alert the attention of a car nearby. One of the grey taxis sat by the side of the road pulled closer to the pair. Sherlock handed the driver the postcode which was written on the back of an envelope and, with a sigh of relief, the pair scrambled into the warm of the back seats.

* * *

The car stopped abruptly outside a pair of wrought iron gates which were teaming with rust and dried ivy which set the overall eerie tone of the house beyond. "Is this it?" John asked.

The driver simply nodded and muttered in German to himself. The pair exited the car on that note and watched as the taxi turned swiftly around and left them staring blankly at the gates.

"Are we going in there?" John pondered flatly.

"Yep." Sherlock replied.

"Are we going to die?"

"Maybe"

"Bring it on."

At that, the gates opened by themselves, letting out a distressing creak of squeaking, old metal which echoed around the empty valley where the pair had been taken.

"What are your parents thinking, bringing us to a place like this?" John asked a little angrier than before as he stepped cautiously up the long winding path to the door.

"Quiet." Sherlock stopped.

"You know what, Sherlock, no I won't be quiet. You have been a thorn in my side now for.."

"SSSHHH! Just listen. What do you hear?"

John folded his arms and scoffed with frustration. "I don't hear anything." He said.

"Then listen closer." Sherlock snapped.

John concentrated on a patch on the floor and, above the roaring wind which howled through the trees, he heard music. "I hear it." He said in a voice a little louder than a whisper.

"John, it's the trout."

The two walked slowly towards the music which played on constant loop through speakers surrounding a large courtyard, through which the pair was walking.

"I don't like this." John whispered to Sherlock whose face was still as stern and unflinching as ever.

"Me either. What were my parents thinking sending me here?"

"Maybe it wasn't them that sent you." John was stood stock still and gazing up at a window several meters above them.

In the window stood Moriarty, grinning and waving like an idiot.

"Oh, God." Sherlock sighed as he walked unhurriedly towards the front entrance.

Twisting the brass handle, the detective strode through the door tentatively and emerged into a pale grey empty room. At one end was a desk with a lady sat typing behind it. Her hair was pulled back so tightly into a bun that she had a constant look of surprise on her unfeeling face.

"The doctor will see you know." Her accent was thick and hard to interpret but the hand gesture towards the door followed by a raised eyebrow enlightened them somehow.

The music never stopped playing. It echoed through the halls and filled the inhabitant's beings full of dread and shadows. Sherlock and John were guided by an absent faced boy, probably only in his teens, down a long slim corridor. Every few meters were filthy metal doors. A light flickered further down the corridor casting shadows of figures. Only then as the pair followed the young man did they hear the low incessant groaning and moaning of other people; other kids from behind the doors.

Sherlock peered through the small window at his eye level which was fixed into one of the doors. There he saw a girl in a nightdress, much the same as Emily's but a little shorter. She wasn't covered in the same bruises and scars as her but still had marks on her wrists and in the crook of her elbows. The girl's eyes were glassy and vacant as she stared into the blank space around her. Sherlock turned away in utter disgust. This poor girl had lost all knowledge of her whereabouts and probably had no recollection of who she was.

"John, take a look at this girl." The detective said, looking away from the girl.

"Look, Sherlock, I know this is a hard situation but, come on,"

"No, John, seriously, she needs help." John frowned and looked through the small window on his tip toes. He needed not to look at the young lady for more than a few moments to know that she was in a constant state of hallucination.

"This is awful." He muttered.

John and Sherlock peered into all of the rooms with a window in the door. Each inhabitant was in a state of complete and utter mindlessness. Nobody knew who or where they were.

"This, John, is where Emily must have come from."

The lights at the end of the corridor flickered on and off again. The hall was silent. Only the drumming of John's heart beating in his ears broke the tangible hush of pure and utter fear. The lights went off; only a door opening could be heard.

The lights came on; a man followed by another walked slowly down the corridor towards the detective and his friend. The lights went off; the clicking of men's shoes became noticeably louder. The lights came on; the men's faces were closer but still obscured by distance. The lights went off; John reached for a gun in his back pocket that didn't exist. The lights came on.


	18. Undoubtedly

Sherlock stared into the face of an elderly gentleman, around 70 years old. His hair was greying and his chin was wiry and unshaven. His hands were tucked into a pair of white surgical gloves, only they used to be white; now they were red; blood red.

The overalls he wore were those used by a doctor or dentist and had a rounded collar hiding some scars on his neck. There were scratches covering his arms and face, all coming in threes. They looked fresh, like someone had simply gashed him with their fingernails. Sherlock smiled; _Emily, _he thought.

"You have a spirited young girl, no?" the gentleman's German accent was thick but his English was still understandable.

"What can I say? When you have no control for fourteen years over a chemically induced mass murderer, discipline simply loses its way." The detective narrowed his eyes and smiled slyly.

"Indeed." The man began. "I do believe you have already met Mr Moriarty."

Sherlock regarded his nemesis and looked back to the old man.

"Yes," he clapped Moriarty hard on the back and laughed, "my greatest experiment."

"What?" John couldn't help his curiosity and Sherlock gave him a glare that told him exactly how he felt.

"I have been attempting to modify the lysergic acid diethylamide drug so that it becomes incredibly potent and long lasting. Generally, people would take this to feel good or 'high'," the man turned and began to walk back the way he came.

"but," he continued," with a little extra taken from the grain itself, the hallucination stage can become nothing but permanent. So, my boy Moriarty is in a constant state of hallucination, which is why he kills for me. He is clever, Mr Holmes, yes, but he has no choice."

John shuffled an inch further away from Moriarty and averted his eye contact.

"Come with me Mr Holmes. There is someone waiting for you."

* * *

"Dad!" Emily called as she saw the doctor and Sherlock through the window of the operating theatre.

"What are you doing to her?!" Sherlock shouted as two heavily armed guards' grabbed hold of him.

"I am making the effects permanent by grafting the substance to her bone marrow." The man didn't even lift his head, just simply carried on cleaning a few sharp metal instruments.

"Who even are you?" Sherlock growled as he continued to struggle and fidget like a loose fish.

"My name is Hans. That is all you need to know."

"Are you at least going to sedate me?" Emily sobbed as she wriggled her hands and feet, trying to get free of the leather straps, tied tightly enough to stop the blood circulating to the taut limbs.

"No, no my dear, the heart needs to be beating fast."

Emily let out a cry of fear and pain as the scalpel scraped into her arm.

"STOP IT! PLEASE!" the girl cried.

Sherlock kicked and flailed his arms, trying to break free but to no avail.

Emily screamed piercingly once more as the blood flowed down her arm in masses. The man began to hum along to the same tune that filled the air with a repetitive burning sensation.

"EMILY!" he cried.

"DAD!" she cried back.

For a moment there was silence, mind numbing silence. Only the rapid breathing and quiet sobs from Emily could be heard. The ostentatious, psychotic, audacious gentleman stooped over the girl one last time, raising his hand to slap her and silence her cries.

"NO!" Sherlock shrieked.

BANG

The man jolted towards Emily, his face turning paler and paler, his eyes widening and his jaw dropping.

"I….I don…" he mumbled quietly as he turned to face Sherlock who was as shocked as he was.

The blood tumbled out of a small hole below his heart. The death would be delayed and painful. Hans unbuttoned his overalls to examine the shot. It was perfect. Only a trained hand could've set it so precisely.

Sherlock turned, smiling, expecting to see the cool face of John Hamish Watson holding the smoking pistol out in front of him, but he didn't. Instead, the blue eyes he expected to meet were dark brown. Moriarty smiled and threw the gun to one side.

"Did you miss me?" he said smoothly before laughing.

The guards loosened their grip on Sherlock before turning and walking away.

"Thanks boys!" Moriarty called after them.

"James!" Emily called.

"Emily, are you alright?" he replied.

"Well, I am now."

"Holy… your arm." He said, reaching out to comfort her.

"I know, but I'm fine though." She smiled warmly at him.

"Am I missing something?" Sherlock's face was more confused than it had ever been in his life.

"I met Emily a little while ago, in Poland. She was going a little crazy and you know how I dig that, you know what I'm saying…" Moriarty elbowed Sherlock playfully in the arm.

"She's fourteen." He replied through his teeth, narrowing his eyes to arrow slits again.

"Easy tiger, I was only messing with you!" Moriarty rolled his eyes.

John ran into the room suddenly and saw Hans' dead body lying on the cold floor.

"Right then." he said, edging around the gentleman's stiff left hand.

Sherlock loosened Emily's leather straps which brought relief flooding through her body. He picked her up. She attempted to wrap her arms around his neck but winced as the deep cut began to bleed faster.

"Find something to wrap around her arm." Sherlock said, but John was one step ahead. He took off his pathetic excuse for a scarf and wrapped it tightly around her arm.

"There." He said. "We need to find her some morphine to take most of the pain away. James, do you know where they keep the pain killers in here?"

Moriarty was already digging through what looked like a fridge.

"Here." He said defiantly, revealing a small bottle and a syringe.

"I'm sorry Emily but this won't be pleasant." John said as he carefully squeezed the needle into her shoulder.

Emily winced again before closing her eyes gently. The detective looked down at his friend gratefully.

"Thank you, John," he began quietly, "I really have no idea what I would have done without you and…"

The doctor raised his hand.

"Save it for when we get back." He smiled modestly and left the surgery.

"James," Emily muttered as Sherlock began to walk out of the room too.

"James, come with us." She said.

Moriarty's face lit up as she stretched out her un-injured arm towards him. He walked slowly over to her, averting the petrifying gaze of her father, and grasped hold of her hand gently.

"I can't." he said quietly after a moment.

"Why?" she whispered.

"Because I just can't." he replied softly, tucking her hand away.

Sherlock looked down at his daughter's visibly upset face but turned and walked away nevertheless, carrying her away from Moriarty.

Walking out of the surgery, Sherlock felt an overwhelming urge to turn again.

"Fine, come back with us." He sighed.

"What, with you? No way, man! I'm a lone wolf."

"Yes, well, nevertheless a lone wolf needs family." Moriarty looked into Emily's wide, pleading eyes.

"I do have family Sherlock; they just aren't here anymore, so that's where I'm going. I'll see you around then?" Moriarty stood by the window as Sherlock turned to leave.

"Undoubtedly." He replied.


	19. Epilogue

"It's so nice to see you home Sherlock dear." Mrs Hudson's sotto voice rang clear over the muttering of the small congregation in the apartment.

"Yeah, it is nice to see that you're well and everything." Anderson said surprisingly cheerfully.

"Oh, thanks." Sherlock said, laughing a little.

Molly shuffled quickly towards Sherlock and wrapped her arms around his waist.

"Don't you ever do that, again." She said.

Molly loosened her grip as the room erupted into excitable chatter. John appeared around the door followed by Mary who was helping Emily up the last few stairs.

"So," Lestrade walked up to Emily who felt inclined to stand straighter, "how are you coping?"

"Fine sir." Emily said.

"And is everything well at your new school?"

"I am top of the class in science, mathematics and German, sir."

"Good. And your dad is,"

"Irritating, pushy and overprotective."

"Just what I like to hear." Greg bent down and hugged Emily who laughed and patted his back.

John was the other person to want to speak to Emily.

"How's that arm?" he began.

"I suppose it's getting better." She said, revealing the stitches to John who looked as fearless as the day they met.

"Just be sure to keep it clean and use the antiseptics I suggested, okay?" John pulled her in for a hug and then stepped out of the way for Sherlock.

"Well," the detective knelt down before his daughter whose bright blue eyes were ready and waiting for something to begin.

"Are you ready?"

"Ready for what?" she asked, although she already knew the answer.

"For another chapter, for round two, for our next adventure."

At that moment the phone began to ring. Sherlock and Emily looked at it simultaneously, but John picked it up.

"Sherlock, it's for you." John's voice was calm but his hands shook barely noticeably with anticipation and excitement as he handed the phone to the detective.

"Hello?" he began.

The room fell silent. Everyone held their breath and nobody dared move.

Sherlock put down the phone.

"What's wrong." Emily could immediately see the exhilaration in her father's eyes.

"A woman has been found dead in a boat which was floating down the Thames at around 7:30 this morning. What time is it Mrs Hudson?"

"It's err, oh where are my glasses?..." she fumbled.

"What time is it Lestrade?" Sherlock leaped at the detective inspector.

"It's 9:53." He stated.

"Brilliant!" Sherlock spun on his heel and looked at Emily, placing both of his hands on her shoulders.

"So, detective," he started, "let's go to work."


End file.
